


A Court of Dreamers

by acourtofdreamers123



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Collaboration, F/M, M/M, Plague, Prythian, The Autumn Court, The Dawn Court, The Heirs - Freeform, The Night Court, The Spring Court, The Summer Court, The winter court, a court of dreamers, acotar fanfiction, post ACOWAR, the day court
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-12 12:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13547388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acourtofdreamers123/pseuds/acourtofdreamers123
Summary: A collaborative fanfiction based on the A Court of Thorns and Roses series by Sarah J Maas.When the High Lords of Prythian gather to the Autumn Court Forest House with their families to assess a plague that has swept the continent, they all mysteriously disappear. With the power of the High Lordship passed on to their children, these new leaders must rise up against the evil force behind the plague and the death of their parents.





	1. Fanfiction Introduction

A Court of Dreamers

A collaborative fanfiction based on the A Court of Thorns and Roses series by Sarah J Maas. 

When the High Lords of Prythian gather to the Autumn Court Forest House with their families to assess a plague that has swept the continent, they all mysteriously disappear. With the power of the High Lordship passed on to their children, these new leaders must rise up against the evil force behind the plague and the death of their parents. 

  


Characters & Their Authors:

-Nusku, son of Lucien and Elain - Lorrin. 

-Mira, nomad witch - Lorrin.

-Brynle, daughter of Eris - Jordan (jwootan02 on ff.net, jaryn02 on wattpad & ao3)

-Alaria, daughter of Helion & Selene (Beron’s ex-wife) - Gillian (booklover27 on ao3)

-Nyx, youngest son of Rhysand & Feyre - Gillian (booklover27 on ao3).

-Vega, eldest son of Rhysand & Feyre - Courtney (avoidingaverage on ff.net & ao3).

-Oberon, wandering healer - Courtney (avoidingaverage on ff.net & ao3).

-Anastasia, daughter of Kallias & Vivienne - Imogen (imogenwinsborrow on wattpad & heirofthebookstore on tumblr).

-Aster, daughter of Eira (Vivienne’s sister) - Jasmine (remainnameless24 on ff.net).

-Raeul, adopted son of Thesan - Jordan (jwootan02 on ff.net, jaryn02 on wattpad & ao3)

-Kendrix, youngest son of Tamlin - Rachel (FairyPrincessKjar on ao3 & wattpad, rkjar1646 on tumblr).

-Davina, eldest daughter of Tamlin- Rachel (FairyPrincessKjar on ao3 & wattpad, rkjar1646 on tumblr).

-Julian, son of Cassian and Nesta - Edna (eowynfaramir on wattpad & eowynfaramirauthor on tumblr)  
  


  


This fanfiction began with a group chat for fanfiction enthusiasts within a Facebook group for Sarah J Maas lovers. Each chapter is written by a different author in one of their created character’s POV. 

  


Writing styles will differ greatly.  POV’s and tenses will differ.  
  


We hope you enjoy reading this as much as we’ve enjoyed collaborating and writing it!


	2. Prologue: Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Courtney- "AvoidingAverage" on fanfic.net
> 
> POV: Oberon
> 
> Other Works By This Author:
> 
> Broken Dreams- The clever trap of the King of Hybern has cost Feyre her mate bond and she remains trapped behind enemy lines, alone and broken. Set immediately after ACOMAF.
> 
> The Falling- The final battle with Hybern through Nesta's perspective with a new happy ending. One-shot. Heavy Nessian

Once, he could feel the sun and sky above.  Had known the touch of a lover, the tiny strength of his daughter’s hand clutching his own…but no longer.  Those memories were harder for him to recall but he would never forget the rage that simmered beneath his skin.  He was forged anew in the fires of hatred and the desire for vengeance, forgetting the man he once was.

Time had long since lost all meaning to him.  He lived by the distant sounds of waves crashing steadily against the rocky outcropping on the edges of the prison.  Inside, the screams of the wretched and insane echoed off the stone walls.  With no hope of escape or even death, the other inhabitants of these cells were nothing but the animalistic imprints of an immortal race.

He forced himself to focus, forced himself to remain sane and not lose sight of what he must do.

_I am Oberon.  I will not let them erase me.  I will have my revenge.  They will never forget and I will never forgive._

The words were a balm and stinging irritant.  Part of him knew that escape from the Prison was impossible, that some of the creatures within these walls had remained trapped for millennia.  To accept that fact would destroy him, so he continued to repeat his mantra even when the names and faces of his past became blurry.  Even when he began to forget the male he had been.  He refused to forget the blood that was spilled.

Somewhere deep beneath the ground, he began to forget about the light and accepted the horrors of the dark.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Time passed as it always did, even when you could not mark its passage.  He ignored most things now, aside from the occasional whispers of the new High Lord of the Night Court’s visits.  The others were restless, sensing that something was changing in the world outside.  It was hard to hope for anything, but he allowed himself to plan nonetheless.

When a new wave of magic swept through the lands and into the very bones of the Prison, he took his chance.  His power was weakened by the wards, but the destruction of what could only be the Wall had confused them.  Small fissures in the magic spread through the barriers placed on this floating rock.  With a bit of pressure, he began to chip away at the wards keeping his cell door closed and his magic tucked away.

It took time and patience to break through the door but these things he had in abundance.  It was another thing entirely to move through the labyrinth of corridors towards the exit he only vaguely recalled.  Within the first hundred yards, it was clear that he was not the only one who’d noticed the new weakness in the walls.  Terrifying shapes and sounds loomed in the darkness, united by their desires to be free of this place.

Each step was torture as the spells pulled and tore at his skin and magic.  He refused to halt his relentless path towards freedom, towards vengeance.

 _I am Oberon,_ he panted.

_I will not let them erase me._

_I will have my revenge._

_They will never forget and I will never forgive._

Snarling with a mixture of hope and riotous fury, he forced himself through the last of the clinging spell work and into the blinding light of day.

For a moment, he stood stunned at the sensation of freedom.  His eyes hurt from the exposure but he refused to close them, refused to return to the dark.  Instead he gathered his magic, and winnowed as far away from the Prison as possible.

He moved quickly, understanding that it was only a matter of time before one of the watchdogs of the Night Court would begin to hunt him.  He planned to be long gone before they even realized he was missing.

Stretching out his senses, he frowned when he felt an ancient and familiar magic throb in the south _.  Interesting…someone was playing with the Cauldron.  How very naughty indeed._

Satisfied that the fae courts had their own problems to concern them, he took advantage of the fallen Wall and crossed into the human world.  In the world before the Prison, humans were little more than slaves for the High Lords.  He sneered at the tiny homes and stinking cities that he passed through, continuing to move towards the mountains at the edge of his visions.  Stupid, mewling wretches had no idea of what lay in store for them.

No one did.

He was panting by the time he reached the foothills and began to cast about for a new trail to follow.  His months spent locked inside the Prison had weakened him and his magic flickered weakly in his chest.  Oberon just smiled, it was only a matter of time before the world would be filled with the cries of mourning and the sweet scent of death.  His magic would return and his revenge would be sweet.

In the meantime, he would begin by hunting a few witches.

___________________________________________________________________________________

It took time to set up his plans and ensure his victory, far too long for any human to attempt the same.  It was unfortunate really--he wanted so desperately to reacquaint himself with the land of his youth.  Still, the Prison had taught him patience, allowed him to consider every piece of the puzzle that was the High Courts of Prythian.  United, they would remain a threat to his newfound power.

So, instead of ripping his way through the heart of the immortal lands, he sought new allies.  Ones that remained a thorn in the side of those who sought to establish justice and order between humans and magic users.  The witches.  As descendants of the Valg, they thrived in chaos and disorder, violence and bloodshed--and that suited him just fine.

The matrons of the witch clans were obviously reluctant to bow to his leadership but his unique...skills made their refusal futile.

Oberon looked up from his musings with mild interest at the sound of sharp footsteps.  The irritable, but familiar form of his witch general entered the room, followed by her second.  Sif touched two fingers briefly to her brow and waited for him to acknowledge her, “Did you complete your mission?” he asked, his deep voice sweeping through the room.

She glowered at him, “Would I return otherwise?”  Oberon resisted the urge to grin at her prickly nature.  Sif was always easy to rile.

Gesturing imperiously, she signaled for a group of alarmed looking fae into the room.  Their clothes were travel worn and stained and it was obvious that they belonged to the working classes of immortals, far below the lofty palaces of the High Lords.  Once, long, long ago, he would have pitied their position in life, but now he recognized them for what they truly were--pawns in a much grander scheme.

Oberon allowed the silence to build the tension in the room, knowing the cluster of creatures were taking in the macabre and grandiose furnishings of his throne room.  Long ago, in one of his first forays into the mortal world, Oberon had amused himself by fashioning himself into a god for a small tribe of humans.  Apollo, they had called him, a god of healing and disease as well as truth and prophecy.  For centuries, he and his court had manipulated the politics and petty squabbles of mankind for their own amusement until they had grown bored of the short lives and silly hopes of their playthings and returned to the world of immortals.

In homage to his time as a god, Oberon fashioned his home to look like the lustrous temples of the ancient human civilization.  Gleaming white marble pillars soared up out of intricate floor mosaics set with precious stones.  

The new Witch King lounged on a throne that was a glaring contrast to the clean Grecian styles around him.  His throne was made from hundreds of softly gleaming bones partially covered by a deep red cushion that stood out in jarring contrast against the pale skeletal remains.  Fleshless spines formed the framework for the back and armrest while countless tiny finger bones created delicate patterns along the various leg and arm bones used to support his nightmarish design.  Four skulls sat at each corner of the throne’s back and armrests respectively—each belonging to one of the former Matrons of the witch clans.  A blatant warning to each of his visitors.

In comparison to this gruesome reminder of how Oberon had come to power, the high king himself was rather innocuous.  He appeared to be only in his late thirties with a charmingly handsome face framed by tousled dark hair carefully arranged to show off his features while still appearing effortless.  One could almost forget what kind of malevolence he was capable of at least until you looked into his eyes.  They were a sickly kind of yellow that had no natural counterpart and they seemed to bleed with unimaginable horrors.  The king’s clothing was cut simply to show off the intricate embroidery covering every inch of exposed fabric.  On closer inspection, an unfortunate witness could make out the tiny figures writhing in pain with a stylized red border decorating the edges of his high collar.

It was an image carefully crafted to ensure  the loyalty and obedience of all his followers as well as a gruesome reminder of the nature of his powers.  Once he was convinced that his guests were suitably cowed, he stood, drawing their attention back to him.

“Welcome to my kingdom.” He smiled charmingly, “I hope Sif wasn’t too rough with you?”

His general snorted in derision and leaned against one of the columns in the back, her second remaining silently at her side.  The fairies shivered and remained silent, too terrified to speak.  There were seven of them, one from each of the High Courts though he wondered if they realized they were representing their homelands.  It was obvious that they could not claim the magical abilities that were bred in the high fae.  The magic of the lesser fae, or fairies, were typically split into elemental skills: water, earth, fire, and air were the most common and easily manipulated.  Each member of their race and subraces controlled their element in different ways.  Some could control and communicate with the animals of their forests; others could pull the water from the rivers and seas and force it to bend to their will.  

Sif had done well to choose relatively healthy fairies that lacked the capacity to combat most offensive magic, but they had enough magic to serve his purposes.  To their High Lords and Ladies, they were nothing more than the workers that ensured the fields were worked and their pantries remained well stocked.  After this night however, they would become the first soldiers in a war that would rattle the stars from the sky.

He continued as if they had all given an affirmative, “I am sorry for the rude introduction, but, you see, you are a very important part of a much grander scheme.”  As he spoke, he walked closer to the huddled group of fairies.  Gently, he held out his hands to them, “Come, take my hand and I will show you how we can change the world…”  

Oberon’s grin slowly widened as the first fae hesitantly reached out and allowed their skin to touch, “Don’t worry, my friends, you will be returned to your homes safely and with ample provisions with my apologies for the inconvenience.”

Hope bloomed on their faces as he continued, “I hope you would not mind delivering a message for me on your return.”  Gesturing to a nearby servant, he produced several sealed letters and handed one to each of the fae.  “I need these delivered to the High Lords of each court and my friends here,” he gestured to the witches remaining silently on guard at the edges of the throne room, “are not welcome in northern Prythian.”

“Do we have a deal?” The poor creatures were so relieved that they jostled each other to pluck a letter from his hand.  A few even had broad smiles of relief on their plain faces.  Foolish creatures.

Hiding his thoughts, he turned once more to Sif, “See that they are given ample supplies and a swift mount,” Oberon smiled cheerfully at the group, “they need to return home quickly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let us know what you think! We would love to hear your thoughts and constructive criticisms. Thank you for reading!! 
> 
> A Court of Dreamers


	3. Brynle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author: Jordan "jwootan02" on fanfic dotnet and "jaryn02" on wattpad and ao3
> 
> POV: Brynle 
> 
> Other Works By This Author:
> 
> A Court of Night and Shadows: Elain's favorite folklore of the fae mating bond was never so real as when Feyre comes face to face with her rescuer at Fire Night and that internal, invincible twine snaps into place.
> 
> My Brother's Keeper: Rhysand's sister is alive and Under the Mountain by his side, the Night Court whores. She finds solace in a sexual relationship with Eris only to find out Tamlin, High Lord of Spring, is her mate just as his lover, Feyre swoops in the save them all.

“You look disgusting,” I tell my father who’s determined to make this “party” something the likes of which Prythian has never seen before, or so he says.

“It’s called dapper,” he says back to me while he buttons a copper cape that matches his burnished auburn hair beneath his throat, the thick velvet falling to his knees. He’s standing before a mirror, my image a small reflection in his backdrop as he stares down his own nervous eyes. I shouldn’t give him a hard time before he faces all the other High Lords and not their emissaries for the first time in over a century, but I can’t help it. He’s just so easy to goad.

I roll my eyes and step up to rest a hand on his shoulder. “It’s called old. What are you, ten thousand now?”

“Six hundred or so,” he says, brushing off my touch. “And what are you, five?”

I stick out my tongue at his mirror self. 

“Thought so,” he says before turning to face me in the small closet nook within his quarters, a candle lit on every surface behind us as the bedroom stretches to fit his ungodly large oak furniture. We use only candles for light within the Forest House, their flames a constant reminder of who we are, for ourselves and all those who lay their eyes on our power. 

Eris, High Lord of the Autumn Court, raises one eyebrow when he sees me. “Are you sure you want to go looking like that?”

My long sleeved midnight gown twinkles with its blue undercurrents and I shrug. “Why not?”

“Because you belong to Autumn Court? Because tonight is a big night for us. Because the Night Court is the closest thing we have to allies right now and,” he lets out a low scoff eyeing his defeat, “never mind. We’re late.”

He slips past me and after a lingering glance at my reflection, at the face of a woman I hardly even recognize, save for the hair I share with my father, I follow him. The candles in our path light as we make our way down the halls of teak and mahogany, the festive smells of pumpkin and cinnamon spice growing stronger with each step. A small part of me questions whether I made the right choice in challenging another court with something as simple as the clothes I met them in, but it’s too late to change my mind. 

We pass guard after guard and the occasional messenger, someone purposed with the simple task of learning information and bringing it to my father immediately, and I bat my lashes at each and every one. A favorite of mine with glowing green eyes sucks in a staggering breath as I light the candle at his side even long after my father and I have walked by. 

Something about having rules has never sat well with me. And given that my father and uncles all preside over my life, dating has never quite been a safe option for me. But today… 

Today could be different. Today I have the opportunity. Today we are finally opening up our doors to the rest of Prythian. Today, I’ll have my taste of freedom beyond the ever enclosing walls of this never ending home that is my family name - my pride and my curse. 

The sounds of the masses stirring kisses my ears as we weave through the upper level of our home. Perhaps if I were ever to leave this endless wooden maze I might know where all my restlessness comes from. I tear at the corner of my thumb nail with my teeth as the whispers turn to chatter, its clanging music echoing off the hallway, surrounding the taps of our feet as we click in unison to the waiting noise.

“Ah, there you are,” Aalaric says as my father turns the last corner before the stairs to the northern hearth room. Aalaric has kept my family organized since before I was ever born, and though the grey haired fae is near fading, my father has kept him at his side, in our home, despite the fact that I would have probably made him retire a century ago. “Nearly everyone is here.”

My father nods and I hold my chin up high and check that my shoulders are straight. He looks back at me, and for a second I think I can see why everyone says I have my father’s eyes. They seem tired after all these years of solitude. It’s not only me who has locked themselves within our borders for far too long. 

To my surprise, he extends a hand to me. “Ready?” he asks and with a steadying breath, I nod and reach for him. He gives me hand a quick squeeze before letting go. 

He slides on the mask of the High Lord like a second skin, a heavy, brutal obligation that hits me like a punch in the gut everytime I see it. The clamour beneath the staircase falls to a hush as my father steps into view and though I considered hiding in my rooms for this event, I follow his footsteps once again, always watching from a few paces behind. 

There are bodies everywhere. Fae, High Fae. Male, female. All shapes and sizes, the clothing all strikingly different. The effect is jarring. I have never felt that I was missing out on life amongst the other courts as my father had portrayed it during the war, but now… One woman is wearing robes that cover her head to toe, all but her eyes, and not ten paces away are two women with completely exposed stomachs, their clothes loose, but made to show off the shape of their feminine bodies. 

I can see why we had to host them in the northern chambers. This gathering room is our largest, centering around the wildfire within the massive stone hearth that remains lit at all hours of the day and night by the power of the High Lord. The space is peppered with extra seating and a few buffet tables for food. If this was only some of our guests, we might need to open up the northwestern wing as well. 

“Good evening,” my father says, his voice a boom through the great room. “Thank you all for coming. Tomorrow the High Lords will congregate to discuss the great plague that has been purging our peoples, but for tonight,” he pauses and I could honestly gag that he’s trying to build dramatic suspense. “Tonight everyone enjoy yourselves.” 

“Here here!” someone shouts and a few other fae raise their glasses in a cheer. 

The stairs descending to the waiting fae below are possibly the greatest enemy I’ve ever faced, despite the years I’ve spent hunting throughout our country. The faces of the many fae blur together as one, all strange and unfamiliar.

“Who knew you had such a way with words?” A voice says through the crowd. 

I ignore the pang of childishness I feel at following my father around as I watch him turn toward a High Fae male dressed in head to toe black. “Rhysand, my friend, how are you faring these days?”

The High Lord of the Night Court chuckled. “Friend? Oh, fatherhood must have made you soft, Eris.”

“Not exactly the term I would use to describe him,” I smart and Rhysand raises his brows at me. 

“My, aren’t you bold?” he purrs giving my dress a once over just as one of the women with their midriff showing approach at his side. “Feyre, darling, you remember Eris?”

Her smile stings when I look at it, not reaching her blue-grey eyes, the uncertainty of its authenticity creeping into my belly. “How could I forget?” she answers before turning to me. “And you are?”

I try not to show my fear. “Brynle.”

“My daughter.” My father confirms.

Feyre nods. “A pleasure to meet you. I like your dress,” she says just as someone shoves me from behind. 

“Watch it,” I mumble as they disappear into the crowd, but not before I spotted the strangest yellow eyes… 

“This is my son, Vega,” Feyre says, pulling my attention back to her. At first I think I’m seeing double before I finally realize their son is an exact replica of his father.  His hair is effortless and dark as a raven’s feathers, his eyes are such a deep blue they seem violet in the amber light of the hearth fire. “You two are about the same age and so is…” she trails off, searching the room. “There,” she points to a girl with short black hair wearing a black, brocaded jumpsuit - her fringe lighting her bright blue eyes as she talks to a dark skinned male in a fine plum tunic. “That’s my daughter Lyra and then the youngest, Nyx, is off running around with his bargain friend,” she sighed and shared a look with Rhysand. 

“Your youngest has already made a bargain?” my father asks.

Rhys shrugs. “What can you do?” 

“Rhysand!” a deep voice calls and we all turn to face another High Fae, this one with dark skin and hair as light and warm as a white sand beach. Behind him, a male who must be his son follows in his wake, akin to the way I follow my own father.

I avoid eye contact.

“Tarquin! High Lord of Summer, long time no see,” Rhysand says with a laugh brushing his hand on the Lord’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tarquin smiles, “It took long enough to get you out of my house for your beach vacation last month and now you’re just popping right back up in my life.”

Feyre snorts. “It is what he does best.”

Tarquin returns a grin to the High Lady before facing my father. “Eris,” he says, his voice low, “Good to see you again, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

My father nods. “Yes, I wouldn’t wish this blight on my worst enemies.”

“Mm,” he agrees before turning to the male at his side. “This is my son and heir, Merytt.”

Merytt reaches out a hand and, surprisingly, my father takes it. “This is my daughter, Brynle.”

Not heir. Never heir.

All the time he spends with me working on diplomacy and strategy, on war and battle and yet he’s never once spoken of whether I would inherit his land, his people, his power. 

“Hello,” I say, keeping my voice at that perfect level between too weak and too bold, something I’d had to learn the hard way long ago. 

“You’re beautiful,” Merytt says and my head jerks back. Not what I expect from a political meeting. 

“I know,” I counter and, unwilling to face my own boldness, turn and go.

I push through the throng of gathered fae from all the courts throughout Prythian in one of my living rooms. Their feet wearing on my family’s ageless hand woven rugs, their eyes judging all of our hard won skins and horns that dawn the mahogany walls. Food is filtering in from servants running to and from the kitchens with our delicacies, our favorites - meats I have personally worked hard for, scouring the northern mountains near the Winter border for days at a time.

“Sharing is caring,” a small voice says, so small I almost think it’s in my head. But no, I look down as I near an edge in the room and there’s a boy, no older than eight with dark hair and familiar bright, blue-grey eyes.

“What did you say?” I ask.

“It’s okay to share, you know,” he says matter-of-fact, not offering an explanation.

Something cold slides down my throat and settles in my gut. I’m sure I wasn’t saying any of that out loud. 

Then the lights go out.

Immediately I send out a wave of magic that crashes into my father’s as we re-light all the candles, even letting a few flames hover on their own in some of the darker corners. The crowd is a flurry of hushed fear, everyone searching for the cause. 

“A storm is coming.” someone says over my shoulder.

A chill runs down my spine as I turn to face that ragged, familiar voice. 

“Mira!” I scream-whisper. “What are you doing here?”

My peculiar almost friend has that weird look in her eyes again. “Something is brewing, Brynle of Autumn.”

I sigh and look toward my father to make sure he hasn’t noticed us. “You’re being creepy. What are you talking about?”

Her dark matted hair hangs stiff down her shoulders. “I sensed something… off.”

“Off?” I repeat. “What does off mean?”

She starts looking around the room restlessly and I can’t help thinking she’s worrying for her dog that must be waiting somewhere outside for her. “There’s something evil going on here, Brynle. It’s not safe. I came…” she pauses, turning back to look at me with those large, ominous eyes. “I came to check on the threat.”

“I promise you, Mira, there’s no threat here except for me if I can’t stop freaking out,” I say, shaking my head.

“Freaking out?” she echoes as if she’s never heard the term.

“Yes, freaking out. Not being myself. Doing and saying weird things.”

She looks at me for an uncomfortable moment longer before saying, “I think I’m freaking out too.”

My laugh is quick, but efficient. My mood has officially been lightened. 

“Bryn!” my father’s voice calls out from across the room and my nerves crash back into my crawling skin.

“I’ve gotta go,” I tell Mira, my new, but only friend. I found her wandering in the mountains a few weeks ago with nothing but her dog, massive and black as a shadow. I’ve been housing her in an old abandoned stone cottage not far from my wing of the Forest House. “But you should stick around the party. Go get some food for you and Kona. I’ll come find you before I go to bed tonight, cool?”

She nods and though I don’t believe her, I leave her behind to follow after my father.

“I want to introduce you to someone,” he says once I’m close enough to hear, but something is off about his voice. He turns to look at another High Fae, smaller than my father but almost similar looking with a single russet eye and red hair, though the hue is off. “This is Lucien, High Lord of the Day Court, and my youngest brother.”

Of course I have another uncle. 

But before I can smart off any of the possibly offensive things I’ve thought to say, something cold whispers through my chest, sucking the air right from my lungs and I waver on my feet. Just as my father does the same all the candles burn out at once and there's nothing but darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave comments and feedback! Thanks for reading! 
> 
> The Court of Dreamers


End file.
